Six Months In, Six Months Out
by Tyranusfan
Summary: A story of little brothers and big brothers, and the dark places that desperation can lead to. Rated T for language and one scene later. Set in Season 3. A One shot in two parts.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a "two-shot," which is basically a two-part one-shot, but anyway it will eventually serve as the launching point for a longer story. It's about little brothers and big brothers, and what obsession and desperation can lead to. _

_Special thanks to Phx, for giving the basis of this idea (even if she didn't know it!), and to geminigrl11, for being the kind and benevolent beta she is. _

_And, I promise, I'll get back to Truth and Consequences after this. The plot bunnies trample me sometimes._

_I own nothing, but I'm addicted to reviews._

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**Six Months In, Six Months Out**

Dean stared at his brother, sadly contemplating another attempt to get the younger man to eat. It was six months to the day, now, since Dean had made the deal to sell his soul in exchange for bringing Sam back from the dead. Dean didn't regret it---much---at all. He'd been desperate, and he'd gotten wanted he'd wanted, more or less.

More than a year would have been nice.

Sam had put on a brave front at first, vowing to find a way out of the deal, promising to do anything to prevent his older brother from being dragged to Hell. The bravado didn't get them far.

As the days and weeks passed, Sam grew more determined---or maybe obsessed was a better word---with solving this not-so little problem. He'd read more than a hundred books and tomes from every source they could think of; most of them had even been in English. He had taken so many notes that he'd had to get a new journal to keep them all in.

Sam was running himself ragged, and still he hadn't found anything that might help save Dean from his fate. He ate, when Dean forced him. He slept, a few hours a night, usually not even managing to make it to the bed, but instead passing out over some dusty old tome or midway down some obscure paranormal website. Dean had carried Sam to a bed more times in these months than he could remember. And the kid wasn't even getting drunk. Usually.

For Dean, he didn't seem to feel the urgency Sam did. In some ways, it was almost…peaceful. For him, at least. He found himself growing more nostalgic as the weeks passed. He wanted to sightsee. He wanted to spend quality time with the one person important enough to sell his soul for.

Most times, his suggestions panned out, and they'd find themselves laughing or drinking beside some impressive landmark or near some scenic wonder. America was a beautiful country, when you really stopped to look at it.

He'd curtailed the drinking, though, since those days more often than not ended with Sam sobbing himself to sleep, and Dean couldn't bear to listen to the agonized sound of his baby brother's hope fading. So, he kept Sam sober.

As the calendar pages flipped by, though, Sam withdrew further into himself. Dean was finding it increasingly difficult to keep the younger man from simply self-destructing in the midst of his crusade to undo the deal. And, he was pretty sure that the self-destruction would only accelerate as the end drew closer.

Dean already planned to make Sam pledge not to do something stupid---like, say, sticking a gun in his mouth---on the last night. He'd quietly asked Bobby to "adopt" Sam…_after_. Bobby could be trusted to keep the kid alive, and Dean had urged the old junk-dealer/hunter to try and steer Sam into a normal life, a _better_ one.

At the rate things were going though, Sam would starve to death long before any of that happened.

Dean frowned. "Sam…you need to eat."

Sam was jotting something down at a furious speed in his notebook. One finger holding his place in the oversized Latin book he'd discovered in Pastor Jim's rectory the week before, and he didn't look up when he replied. "'kay…."

Dean sighed and rubbed his forehead in frustration. "Sam…."

"Hm…?" He was still scribbling rapidly. Dean had glanced through the notes a few times, and found most of them illegible. How Sam himself could read them was anyone's guess.

"Sam, come on, man…."

"Let me get through this page, I'm almost done," Sam said distractedly. It was the same thing he'd said two _hours_ before.

"Sam!"

The shout startled his younger brother into looking up, surprise etched on his haggard features. "Huh, what?"

Dean couldn't find it in him to be angry at being ignored. "Can we please go get something to eat? I'd like to get dinner before the hell hounds get here."

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, and chided himself that he should have thought before speaking. His macabre humor was something that used to make Sam laugh. Now, a look of utter horror settled on Sam's face, and Dean winced as the exhausted younger man scrambled to find something with the date written on it…as if he'd lost track.

He stood and stepped over to the table just as Sam found a buried newspaper and noted the date with a short, determined nod. There was no relief in his expression. Dean grabbed his wrist and tugged his sibling up out of the chair. It was easier than it should have been. Sam was losing weight.

"Let's go, okay?"

"Okay," Sam nodded, sounding reluctant and shaky.

Dean really regretted the joke, now. He watched Sam cast a longing look at his notebook, and he gave the younger man a gentle push before he could grab the book and take it to dinner with them.

Dean followed Sam out the door to the waiting Impala, and he couldn't help but notice the slumped shoulders, the unkempt hair, and the listless gait that had appeared recently. Before long, he feared they would need a visit to a hospital more urgently than a diner. Sam hadn't been this screwed up since Jess died.

That thought gave him pause. Not for the first time, Dean had second thoughts about his deal. He'd been so desperate to bring Sam back, so desperate not to have to live in a world without him, that he never considered what the effect would be on Sam later. At the time, the more pressing matter had been saving Sam, not worrying about the events of the next year. Hell, sometimes it was a long shot of them surviving the _day_, let alone twelve months.

Looking back though, he realized he'd been short-sighted. It had been cruel, really, sidestepping his own grief at Sam's sudden and pointless death by condemning Sam to a long and lingering version of the same grief. A year's worth of slow-torture, trying to reverse a deal that might be irreversible, that would leave Sam a hollowed out shell in the end.

Maybe he _deserved_ to go to Hell for doing that.

He tried to squash those thoughts for a moment and concentrate instead on keeping Sam focused, at least until they'd eaten. He made sure Sam got into the car first, before dropping into the driver's seat. He stared at Sam's profile---something he'd been doing a lot of lately, sometimes unconsciously---for a moment before speaking.

"I wanna head out to Hoover Dam tomorrow."

Dean waited patiently, wondering how Sam would react. As he expected, he saw hesitation. _Probably doesn't want to take time away from his research_.

Well, Dean wasn't gonna wait anymore.

It was amazing to think how quickly and how much their priorities had shifted, in just a matter of months. They only hunted for friends, nowadays. Bobby, Jefferson, Joshua, Ellen…all of their close contacts could ask for and receive their help whenever it was needed. Beyond that, they'd effectively dropped out of hunting.

It wasn't fair, really. The demons Jake had released from Hell were still out there, wrecking havoc where they could…but without a leader for the yellow-eyed demon's army, the war hadn't heated up the way everyone had thought it would.

One demon Bobby had exorcised had revealed the reason.

The demons were keeping quiet, trying to organize, a task made more difficult by the lack of a leader. Demons were not known for cooperation, even with their own kind, and with no one to look to for guidance, infighting and confusion were crippling the effort and hunters were picking off demons one at a time.

Dean sometimes wondered if that's why the yellow-eyed demon had wanted a human to begin with. Maybe he'd needed someone for the "army" to rally around, someone different enough to focus their effort and who could be seen as neutral in whatever demonic disagreements and feuds had developed over the centuries.

Knowing all that, the Winchesters had withdrawn from the field. Dean wanted to live his last year as best he could, and Sam wanted more time to research and save Dean. So, they pulled back. The world could find others to save it. It always did.

"Dean…I think, maybe we should stay here. Bobby's bringing this book he found---"

"Jesus, enough with the research and the all-nighters, Sam!"

Sam seemed confused and taken aback at the same time. Dean plowed ahead. "Sam…I just wanna travel, man. I wanna see everything I can…with _you_. Can we do that? Can we just be brothers? Sam…I feel like…I feel like we're _wasting_ the time we have left…."

He tried to ignore the quiver in Sam's lower lip at that last part. It needed to be said. Sam blinked a few times, trying to control himself, Dean knew.

"I can't…Dean…I can't just _let you die_. I have to find a way. You get that, right?"

Dean's expression softened. "I do, Sammy, I do. But, I wanna _live_. I'm tired of watching you waste away in motel rooms, looking for something that you may never find." When Sam looked like he might protest, Dean kept on, "you told everybody that you were on a road trip after you left Stanford. Let's do that! I want us to see _everything_, while we still can. Can we do that, Sammy?"

Sam wavered, and Dean could see his defenses slipping. He could tell he was getting through. Finally, Sam nodded, looking resigned. "We can do that, Dean."

Dean was sure the smile on his face could light up a city, and he clapped his younger brother's shoulder in approval. Sam tensed though. Round two was coming.

"But, I'm not giving up. Whenever we're not traveling or when you're driving, I'm gonna keep working. I'm _not_ gonna let you just die."

Dean smirked. "That's touching, man, really. I mean, I've got this warm, bubbly---"

Sam sighed and dropped his head into one hand. "I thought you were hungry?"

Dean laughed, and let it drop. From the bags under Sam's eyes, he figured his little brother wouldn't be able to keep up the banter anyway. He put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot. He fired one more at Sam, trying to lighten the mood before they ate.

"You look like crap, dude. Did you even take a shower today?"

Sam laughed for the first time in weeks. "Shut up, jerk."

Dean glanced at Sam, reveling in the spark of happiness he saw in the worry-lined face. It had been too long since he'd last seen it. But, for some reason he couldn't fathom, Bobby's words from more than a year before echoed in his mind.

_Storm's comin'. And you boys are right in the middle of it._

TBC

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A/N-_There will be a second chapter, finishing this story. The part will reach an end, but it is only the prologue to another story. _


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm glad part one went over well. _

_This is not a deathfic._

_This part reaches a conclusion. Whether it is an END is up to interpretation. As I said, this is the lead-in to another story._

_By the show's timeline season 3, and this story, would end sometime in November 2008._

_I own nothing, reviews craved._

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**Chapter 2**

The next few months went by too quickly. Dean's road trip consumed massive chunks of time, and Sam woke up one morning, realizing that he was truly happy. Maybe for the first time in his life.

They'd been to the Grand Canyon, slipped across the border to Tijuana---an exploit made more exciting since they were on Federal wanted lists---and seen, toured or otherwise experienced every landmark and tourist attraction in the Western United States, starting with Hoover Dam. They'd found some that were not even listed on maps.

Hunting was all but left behind. About a month after Dean convinced Sam to simply _live_, Bobby had asked for help with a water demon in the Great Salt Lake. They'd gone. They were loyal to their friends. That is, until Sam had almost drowned trying to exorcise the bastard. They'd beaten it, sent it back to Hell, but Dean had declared them officially retired. He'd told Bobby that he wasn't about to risk his brother's life again after that near-disaster.

So, they left. The weapons and hunting tools were placed in storage, under a false identity that would allow either of them to retrieve it. Only a few necessities, items for self-defense, remained into the trunk. Better safe than sorry, after all. They'd made a lot of enemies over the years.

Then, one day, Sam woke up, and found Dean sitting against the headboard of his bed, staring at him. His eyes were wet.

"Dean, what is it? Are you alright?"

Dean smiled, but it wasn't a pleasing sight at all. "Happy Columbus Day, Sammy."

Sam blinked at him for a moment, not comprehending. _Why the hell is Columbus Day important?_ Dean looked away. Sam stared at his brother, trying to piece together some reason Dean might be upset today. Columbus Day was a non-religious holiday. Last day off before Halloween for postal workers and the like….

It hit Sam like a freight train.

Columbus Day. October 8th.

They only had a few _weeks _left. And they hadn't found anything that could save Dean.

_Oh, God. OhGodOhGodOhGod... Nononono!_

Sam couldn't breathe.

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Sam was hyperventilating, and Dean had to grab him before he fell face-first off the bed. He pulled his pale, thrashing brother back against the headboard and shoved his head between his knees. All the worry lines that the joy of the last few months had erased seemed to reappear instantly. Sam looked like he'd aged ten years in just a few minutes.

"Calm down, Sammy. Just breathe, man," he whispered. It took Sam a few minutes to recover, so Dean just waited, letting reality crash down on his little brother, and hating himself for not being able to think of anything comforting to say. He just softly repeated the reminder to breathe.

As soon as he could lift his head again, Sam leapt right back into researching, picking up where he left off as if it hadn't been five months.

If anything, it was worse than before. That first week, he might have slept an hour a night, on the nights he slept at all. Dean's protests fell on deaf ears.

He finally resorted to slipping Sam sleeping pills in place of headache medicine. Dean didn't care if it pissed Sam off, he wasn't going to watch his brother kill himself just weeks out from...

Sam reacted to it better than Dean figured he would. Which is to say that Sam didn't seem to notice at all. He woke up the next morning, and went right back to what he'd been reading.

But there was nothing to find.

The night before Dean's last day was the worst.

Sam had been withdrawn all day. The frantic reading and note-taking slowed to a sporadic and almost disinterested pace. Sam dozed off occasionally, and even those brief periods of sleep brought an onslaught of nightmares and visions. The first he'd had---or, at least, that Dean knew of---since they'd stopped hunting. Visions of Dean's death, he was almost certain. Sam looked awful, but he wouldn't talk about them.

Sam started drinking about mid-day. Dean joined him for a while, but, for the first time ever, he couldn't keep up. Sam was talking---mostly reminiscing---and laughing, at least, even though it sounded like borderline hysteria. The subject of Dean's impending demise didn't come up. Dean decided not to intervene. He'd buried himself in a bottle on occasion. Denial was a Winchester trait.

He called Bobby, telling the older hunter where they'd be the next day, and asking him to make sure Sam went home with him. And to lock up all the liquor for a while. One John Winchester in the family was enough.

That night, when Dean came back from getting them food, he found Sam slumped against the wall of the shower, with the .45 Dad had given him when he was nine-years-old pressed to his temple. Dean tried to be surprised, he really did, but the way Sam had been headed...

_Plus, I never did get around to making him promise _not _to_...

He stepped cautiously into the bathroom, watching Sam watch him. Sam spoke first, alcohol slurring his speech.

"I tried. I tried, Dean, I swear..."

"I know you did," Dean answered quietly, slowly sitting down beside Sam on the edge of the tub, "I know. You made me proud, Sammy."

His brother apparently didn't agree, from the way he shook his head. The look of failure was written all over his face. "I'm so s-sorry..."

Dean carefully held out his hand, motioning for the gun. "Give that to me Sam, please."

For a moment, Sam didn't move, he just sat there with tears streaming down his face. When Dean was about to ask again, he suddenly thrust the gun, grip first, at him. Dean took it, and chuckled.

Sam glared. "What?"

Dean felt bad for laughing, but it was just too damned funny. "Sorry. I'm just glad you're too drunk to tell."

Sam blinked, confused. Dean took pity and explained.

"I hid all the bullets a few weeks ago, Sammy. The gun isn't loaded," he pulled out the empty clip and held it up for inspection.

Sam frowned, his inebriated brain clearly having some difficulty processing the news. Then he rested his head against the tiled wall with a sigh. "Sneaky jerk."

Dean slid an arm under Sam's shoulders and pulled him to his feet. "Time for bed, bitch."

His brother protested loudly, but his drunken limbs weren't capable of fighting, and Dean maneuvered him into the bed without much trouble. Dean placed a trash can by the bedside, in case Sam's body decided to reject the alcohol, as it normally did, then slid onto the bed beside his rapidly dozing sibling. He leaned over Sam's ear.

"Don't be sorry."

Sam mumbled something unintelligible. Dean propped his head on his arm and watched Sam slip deeper into sleep. His brother was in agony, Dean knew, but there was nothing they could do to stop it. They were out of options. They were out of time.

The night hours crept by slowly. Dean was grateful for that. He watched Sam sleep, and even though he was tired himself, he wasn't sleepy. _Bone-weary maybe_.

He noted the differences in Sam's features. His weight had bounced back, once Dean had gotten him to live a little. His face was drawn, though, tense even in a drunken sleep. Worry lines creased his face. Dean hoped those would recede with time. Sam needed to move on. The hunt---the crusade---Dad had sent them on before they were old enough to understand had taken too much, crushed too many dreams, and Dean prayed---yes, really prayed---that Sam could soon, finally, let it go.

Sam had a few nightmares that night, none powerful enough to wake him, but enough to get Dean to pull the younger man closer, draping one arm around Sam's---too broad…_when did Sammy grow up?_---shoulders and place his hand over his heart. It beat steadily, strong. Dean took pride in the fact that his sacrifice had restored this heart to life. Sam deserved it. Sam deserved so much more.

Dean allowed himself a moment of fear. He didn't know what was going to happen the next night. He wasn't keen on discovering what Hell was really like, either, for that matter. And he didn't know what Sam would do. Would Sam do something stupid, like trade his life back in to the demon? She'd left that possibility open, and Sam knew that. He could only hope that Sam wouldn't remember…or, failing that, wouldn't remember soon enough to do anything about it.

Sam soon settled enough that Dean could get off the bed without waking him, and he used his brother's soft snores as cover to move around the room. He made a few final phone calls. Missouri, Ellen, a few others. The calls were short. What was there to say, really?

He snagged Sam's phone off the dresser, checked the old number, and made one call to New York. Someone had to look after Sammy's future and, for the next fifteen hours or so, Dean was _still_ the big brother. He still had a job to do.

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Dean's last day went quietly enough. Sam was hung-over, but not sick, and Dean was glad he'd asked Bobby to keep the kid sober for a while...he didn't need to keep up _that _trend.

They talked about old times, a lot, and he even got Sam to smile once or twice. He broached the subject of Sam living with Bobby for a while, and the younger man didn't reject it outright even though he immediately changed the subject. Dean ended up writing a note instead, outlining what he thought Sam should do. He made sure it was clearly a suggestion, and not an order. He didn't want his last wishes to feel like a debt.

As far as any kind of Last Will went, his was short and to the point. _Take the car, and live your life_. _Maybe even forgive yourself once in a while._

All too soon, it was time.

They headed out to the crossroads---Dean wasn't one to wait around---and parked the car. The demon would be along soon. Bobby was waiting in his truck about a mile back, with instructions to wait about an hour and then collect Sam. He didn't tell Sam that part. He didn't want his brother to feel he needed to put on a strong face. They'd repressed a lot over the years…maybe it was time for the masks to go.

He felt more than saw Sam turn to him, the raw desperation radiating off of him. Dean knew what he'd say before he said it.

"Let's go back to Bobby's. We can lock the place down, salt, devil's traps…that hoodoo Gofer Dust that George Darrow used... We can hold it off until we find something---"

"We already looked, Sammy," Dean whispered, gently, "It's time."

"No. No, goddammit. We can---"

"Sam..." Dean cut in, looking over at the seething younger man. For a moment, he was surprised, expecting to see the young boy he'd been seeing for the past few days…the one he remembered so clearly. Instead, he saw Sam as an adult. The responsible, battle-hardened hunter that he and his father had created; the heartbroken, but ferociously protective brother he'd trusted his life to for three years. He saw the last Winchester, still defiant after so many defeats.

His voice softened, "Thanks for not giving up on me."

Sam, shivered, looking like he was going to shake apart. Dean reached out and placed his hand against Sam's neck, feeling the racing pulse beneath his fingers. He'd make the deal all over again. It was worth it.

He tried to control the quake in his own voice when he spoke. "I want you to do something for me."

"Anything..." Sam whispered fiercely.

"I want you to wait a few days, then call Sarah. She had the hots for you, for some reason. I think she still does," he grinned when a ghost of a smile moved Sam's mouth.

"Dean, you know---"

Dean cut him off, knowing the only thing on Sam's tongue would be about Madison, and it was long past time that Sam forgave himself for that.

"Don't argue, just call her. I'm not asking you to elope," he shrugged, "'course that'd be pretty cool. You could name one of your kids after me." Sam's smile came out this time.

"I'd name them _all_ after you..."

Dean laughed. "That's gonna make Christmas confusing..."

Sam looked down, trying not to laugh, but failing.

"And I want you to remember something, too..." Dean said.

"What?"

Dean paused, trying to look like he was going to be profound, reeling Sam in. He'd always been good at that. "Remember, that you're an annoying little bitch, and that nobody likes you."

Sam blinked for a moment, blindsided, then burst out laughing and crying at the same time. He threw his arms around Dean and pulled him into a crushing embrace. He burrowed his face into Dean's shoulder and whispered as if divulging a secret.

"I love you, Dean."

Dean tensed, almost instinctively. He reminded himself about the time for masks dropping…or whatever he'd told himself that afternoon. There was no more time to appear macho. This was his last chance.

He hugged Sam back, hard.

"Likewise, Sasquatch."

Sam choked back a sob, another shiver racked his body, and Dean held on tighter. "Don't be afraid, Sammy."

"Well, this is touching," a female voice interrupted.

Dean cringed, knowing the voice must belong to the demon.

Time was up.

END OF PROLOGUE

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_This will continue in a longer story. The premise?_

_Sam's destiny has never been written in stone, he'll have to chisel it there himself._


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